Date with a Sheesha (21 page)

“What is this place?” Hema asked in her hard, nasal tone.

“Don’t worry, my decadent beauty,” Alastair drawled as he attempted to lay one long, skinny arm around Hema’s tiny shoulders, a foot or so below him. “I will take care of you. Any sign of trouble, I will personally escort you home. Perhaps we could share a nightcap?”

Glaring up at him as if he were some kind of giant stick insect, she shrugged off his arm. “Do you even know why you’re here?

Has Russell even bothered to tell you the truth?”

Bitch!

Oops. I hate that word. I really do. But it just slipped out (in my head). And okay, I suppose she had some reason to be a bit 142

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grouchier than usual (which was no small feat). I’d gotten her out of bed. I insisted she come out with us so Alastair would have her as his date, and I would have Alastair as my translator. But this was an investigation. She was part of that investigation. And sworn to protect my cover. Well, maybe she didn’t swear to that, but she should have.

Alastair pulled out of our lineup of three. He turned and stood gazing at me while laying a pale hand on my shoulder. “Oh, I know the truth, my sweet muffin,” he said, with a wink at Hema.

“Our Russell is on the pull! In search of some rumpy-pumpy!

Riding the beast with two backs! Looking for action! We’re here to provide cover, and that we shall. Onward. Into the breach!”

Hema shot us both a disgusted look. I was rather dumbfound-ed myself. She marched inside the building without a backward glance. I hurried to follow her in, and to get away from Alastair’s wacky outburst.

“What is this place?” I used Hema’s question when we stepped inside.

We were in a large, palm-filled courtyard, littered with hundreds of pillows and large cushions strewn about a floor laid end-to-end with Persian carpets. Although the lighting was low, I could see many small groupings of people, most of them huddled together on the floor.

“It’s a sheesha café,” Hema announced, wandering further into the room.

“Sheesha?”

“Hookah, my friend,” Alastair said, coming up behind me.

“You know, a water pipe? Smoking
nargileh
?”

I looked around with a bit of a frown on my face. “This is the gay bar?”

Alastair lowered his lips close to Hema’s right ear, and asked,

“You up for a hubbly bubbly, my love?”

Her nose indicated a free spot not far off. “We’ll be over there.”

Alastair went off to arrange our sheesha. Hema and I lowered ourselves onto a large cushion near the centre of the room. Not the best spot from which to watch the comings and goings, but the 143

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place was popular and we didn’t have much choice. While we waited I assessed the crowd. It seemed to be an even mix of Arabs and expats, all ages. There was not a butch dyke, twink, or celebrity DJ to be seen. I began to worry that we’d either come to the wrong place, or, maybe more likely, been
sent
to the wrong place by Aashiq.

A moment later, Alastair returned with a sheesha server (for lack of a better name), who set up our apparatus. The odd-looking thing was about thirty inches tall, sitting on a glass base filled with water. Above the base was a valve and narrow stem leading up to a small plate or ashtray positioned below a very small clay bowl. From near the valve mechanism came out a trio of hoses, like the rubber arms of Medusa, each with a mouthpiece attached to its end. The server placed a hand on top of the hookah and handed one of the mouthpieces to Alastair. He made the most of making a sucking motion. We—or maybe it was just me—oohed and ahhed as bubbles formed in the water. Apparently this meant the set-up was airtight.

As the server placed some tobacco in the clay bowl, Alastair said with great authority, “In other parts of the world, this device is called the hookah, and the tobacco the sheesha. But here, the device, particularly the glass water container at the bottom is the sheesha, and the tobacco is called
moassel
. What we have here is more of a herbal molasses.”

Hema watched with a practiced eye as the server placed a small bit of pierced foil atop the tobacco. Then, with a set of tongs, he laid a lit charcoal on top of that. “Do we have a flavour choice?” she asked, obviously no stranger to a water pipe.

Flavours? What was this, Ben & Jerry’s?

“I went with a mixture of raspberry, jasmine, and honey,”

Alastair told her with an adoring look. “A sweet combination that will forever remind me of you.”

She rolled her eyes and reached for a mouthpiece.

Alastair dumped himself unceremoniously on the cushion next to his resistant amour. With dramatic flair, he pulled the tube away from her. “Allow me,” he said with an indulgent smile.

“You must never accept a hose with mouthpiece pointing toward 144

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you. The last smoker should always fold the hose back on itself so that it’s pointing away from the recipient.” He demonstrated.

“Then, as I hand it to you, you will tap the back of my hand as a sign of friendship…or perhaps affection?”

Hema eyed the blond Brit for a second, gave his hand a per-functory tap, and took the hose. While Alastair used the tongs to gently press down on the charcoal, Hema sucked in using the mouthpiece, pulling air up through the charcoal. The burning charcoal heated the air, which, after a couple of sucks, began to burn the tobacco and produce smoke. The smoke passed down through the tube that extends into the bottom jar, and bubbled up through the water. Our server grinned upon seeing Hema’s success, and walked off to deal with other customers.

After we’d passed the thing around and tapped each other’s hands once or twice, I decided I’d had enough. I used to be a smoker, many years ago. The acrid feeling in my throat and lungs as I partook of the sheesha was not altogether unpleasant. But I didn’t want to play footsie with temptation. Besides, I had work to do. The first thing on the list was to find out if I was where I was supposed to be.

I pulled myself up to a standing position and told Hema and Alastair I was going to take a look around. Hallwood seemed glad to be getting some alone time with his “Indian rose petal.” Hema, as usual, didn’t seem to care if I stayed, left, lived, or died.

For the next little while, I circumnavigated the sheesha café, looking for something familiar. But several minutes later, I still had seen no sign of Aashiq, a Donna Summer drag queen, or two men doing much more together than sharing a sheesha. It was on my third time around the room that I found the doorway, hidden behind a thick velvet curtain. I pushed the drapery aside and found myself at the top of a set of stairs, lit only by a red-tinged spotlight. I tipped my head to one side. I thought I could hear something…something…something…oh, yeah, there it was. If I wasn’t mistaken, it was the rhythmic bass of the Black Eyed Peas singing “My Humps.”

The telltale noise was coming from somewhere downstairs, far below the sheesha café. I looked back into the café and caught 145

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Alastair’s eye. I pointed through the curtain to show him where I was going. Giving me a wink and an A-okay sign, he returned his fawning attentions to Hema, who was pretending to look bored.

I was surprised after descending one staircase to find another.

Then another. And another. When they say gay nightlife in the Middle East is underground, they aren’t kidding. Finally I emerged into a small foyer. Behind a window cut out of a drab wall was a rather theatrical Grace Jones type (or is that an oxy-moron?). She asked for one hundred dirham. I calculated in my head that she was charging me roughly thirty Canadian dollars to get in. Jeeeeeeeeeeepers.

I paid the entrance fee and was buzzed in through a steel-rein-forced door. Once inside, I made my way down a narrow hallway, then another, then down another set of stairs into a large room where another Grace Jones type (how many were there? was this some kind of employee uniform?) assessed me with RuPaul eyebrows. Apparently I passed muster, and Grace #2 waved me in.

Okay, fabulous boys. Here I come.

About ten minutes later, I concluded that, yes, Aashiq had led me astray. This was indeed a dance club, filled with no doubt fabulous people. But these fabulous people were decidedly straight, both men and women. I walked around a little longer and was about to leave when I spotted yet another velvet covered doorway. Oh, come on. You gotta be kidding me.

This time, behind the velvet curtain wasn’t another set of stairs. This was a good thing. If I went much lower, I’d be back home. Instead, I found my third Grace Jones. Another seventy-five dirham bought me passage through the next door. This, I promised myself, would be the last. It would have to be. I was running out of money.

The door opened.

“Voila!” a choir of angels sang. Friends of Dorothy!

They were everywhere.

Once again, I was surprised, and rather heartened, to see that some things remain the same, no matter where you are. Although the tune blaring over the loudspeakers wasn’t familiar to me, it had the thumping, primal beat of Saturday night dance music 146

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being played in gay bars the world over. Also typical, more people were on the dance floor than were standing at the collection of tables spread throughout the room. Gay men who frequent these types of places traditionally do not make very good wallflowers.

If they’ve made the effort to pluck their eyebrows and get in that extra workout, purchased that too-pricey, too-tight tank top, and spent their hard-earned money on a bit of something special to get them in the mood, they certainly aren’t going to stand in the shadows letting it all go to waste. Nope, these men wanted to move and writhe, flirt and play naughty.

As before, the mix here was even between locals and immigrant wannabe locals, but unlike the sheesha café many leagues above, the age range was decidedly narrower. I, approaching forty, was probably a bit skewed to the right of the bell curve. But, thanks to dim lighting and the blurring effects of alcohol and other mood-enhancers, I was pleased to note that my entrance attracted more than a few admiring stares.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw Aashiq. Or rather, the late-night-out-on-the-town version of Aashiq. Gone were the stylish but sedate black suit, slicked back hair, and uncertain, wary eyes. He’d wriggled into a pair of tight denims that barely reached his waist and an equally tight shirt with an intricate embroidered design running up one sleeve and across his pumped-up back and chest. His hair was boyishly messy, and he looked five years younger than he had at the Skyview Bar, and, if possible, even more handsome.

“You made it,” he shouted in my ear.

I smiled and shrugged, as if it had taken nothing to find the place. If Aashiq had meant to make getting here difficult for me, I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of seeing the result of his duplicity on my face.

“Come,” he said, taking my hand. “You must dance.”

And so we did. The music was good. Infectious. A little bit later, when I felt Aashiq’s hand casually fall to my buttocks and linger there, I knew it was time to sit the next one out. He good-naturedly agreed, and led me to a corner of the room where a group of men sat around a table smoking. Although Dubai restau-147

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rants, hotel bars, and members-only clubs (which I guessed this must be, or else why did I just pay fifty bucks to get in?) are allowed to sell alcohol, there was none to be seen.

Aashiq and I squeezed in amongst the others. The musky, spicy scent favoured by Arab men was heavy at the table. Aashiq introduced me as a friend of Neil’s. At first, there was general talk about Neil and his death. I learned nothing new. Eventually, the conversation turned to how these men lived their lives as homosexuals in an Arab nation.

“I have lost three jobs because of what I am,” said the youngest of the bunch. He’d been introduced as Yash.

“They call us names,” said another, a heavyset man who, in America, would do quite well in the bear clubs. “They see us coming out of certain establishments or walking together down the street as friends, and somehow they know. The most vile things come from their mouths. They shout them loud, for all to hear.

And then they laugh at us.”

The most effeminate of the group spoke up. “Our families can be a problem too. If they suspect, they taunt you until you deny it.

Me? I never deny it. I told them I am who I am, and I will never change.”

“What happened then?” I asked, hoping for a story of familial love triumphing over hate.

“They shun me like a dog,” he told me, his eyes blurring, but only for a second. “To them, I am unclean. Unacceptable. A viola-tion of all they believe in.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. You’re very brave.”

“A brave man with no place to live,” he said with very little of the bitterness I was expecting to hear.

“At least you still live,” the bear said. “Think of Khidr.”

“Khidr? What happened to him?” I asked.

Yash shrugged his shoulders. “No one knows. One day, he tells his brothers he is homosexual. The next, he is gone. No one has heard from him since.”